Paper Hearts

by S R Savell

He shakes his head, leaning against the door frame. His hands are in his pockets, and he clears his throat.

  I pat my damp hair. “I call right side, then.”

  “Sure,” he says, smile faint.

  “I can sleep on the couch—”

  “No, don’t!” He snaps his mouth shut. “I mean, um, please don’t. I want to—”

  “Sleep with me?”

  “Yes.”

  I laugh, and he does too.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I know.” I sit and pat the bed.

  He approaches slowly like he’s readying himself to tackle an alligator.

  “I don’t bite,” I say.

  It’s going to be a tough squeeze, but we’ll manage.

  “Ready?” he says.

  “Yep.”

  He clicks off the lamp.

  I’m half hanging off the mattress, so I know he has to be too. There’s just not enough room for two.

  “Michelle?”

  “Yeah?”

  Warm breath slides over my eyelids, and I can’t help but stroke his face.

  His hand finds my cheek, and he whispers, “Can I hold you?”

  “That’s the only option,” I whisper back.

  He laughs before taking me in his arms.

  “Have a good day at school, dear.” I peck his cheek.

  “You too.” He dips and kisses my cheek before heading out.

  Married life is so cool. Well, not really, because we’re not really married. But living with Nathaniel is the badassiest thing I can think of and is as close to knot tying as we’ll get for a while.

  He’s also easy to live with for several reasons.

  First, he’s not a picky eater. He’s not a picky anything and only asks that we share dish duty.

  Second, we just get along. No different way to put it. Everyone does their thing, and everyone’s happy.

  Third, we’re happy.

  I like number three the best.

  Wolfie is a mess and a half. He eats like it’s a full-time job, chews indiscriminately, and occupies just about every second of Nate’s free time. I’ve never seen a more jealous dog. If I hug Nate, Wolfie butts in. If Nate’s lying on the floor, Wolfie’s at his feet. It goes without saying that Nathaniel is the good cop and I’m the bad one.

  Did I mention Wolfie’s a great judge of character?

  Luckily for the carpet, Wolfie has come along with the potty training. I read that if you tie a bell by the door and ring it right before it’s walk/potty time, they’ll start to ring it themselves when they need to go. Lo and behold, our little stray has done just that. He’s clanging it now, bringing in the new exercise routine and the sounds of Christmas.

  “All right, all right.”

  We’re out the door in five, strolling the streets and alleys for a suitable pooping place.

  “No.” I pull the candy wrapper from his mouth and stick it in the trash can.

  He’s displeased and decides to park his butt next to the garbage.

  I squat. “You gonna be stubborn?”

  He starts to chew on his foot.

  “You won’t win, you realize. I’m the boss here, and you? You are the kid.”

  “Mommy, that lady is talking to her dog. Can we get a talking dog?”

  A tired-looking woman nods and drags her son along for the ride, giving us a wide berth as she passes.

  “Mine needs to be yellow. Yellow like a bus, okay?”

  She doesn’t reply.

  It reminds me of my own egg donor, the same lack of parental affection, the self-absorption that comes from mental tiredness.

  We walk again, me scanning through all three of my contacts to find her number. I left my old phone and bought a prepaid with some saved funds. It’s cheap and does its job, so I enjoy it.

  I wonder how she’s doing. Then I wonder why I give two shits.

  “Ho ho ho!” Santa belts out, smelling like pee and booze, his beard the color of dirty cotton.

  Smells like holiday spirit.

  “Nothing. Agreed?”

  “Not even homemade?”

  “Hmm.” I eat another dry Cheerio from the bowl. “Homemade, yes, if it doesn’t cost anything. Besides that, nada.”

  “Okay.” He takes a Cheerio.

  “You gave up pretty easy.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.” I take a drink of Gatorade to wash it down. “Was expecting you to argue more.”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “No, you just surprised me.” I offer the Gatorade.

  He takes it. After a pause, he asks, “What about a ten-dollar limit?”

  “I knew it,” I say, playing keep-away with the bowl.

  He takes it with ease, long arms like tree trunks with branch fingers. “Knew what?”

  “That you couldn’t resist. You love Christmas.”

  “Yeah, I do.” He hands the bowl back. “Ten-dollar limit, then?”

  I nod, finishing off the Gatorade. “Oh, we can even make decorations. Like origami ornaments on an origami tree.” I tug his shirt. “Can we, please?”

  He agrees.

  “You checked out the book . . . to someone else.”

  The guy seems more distracted with the cute blond in the corner than he does with delivering good customer service. I agree: the guy is a cutie.

  I lean forward and snap.

  “Oh, yeah, well, some girl needed it quick, so I was like, bring it back before Tuesday—”

  “But she never did?” I put my hands on my hips, appalled.

  “Yeah, pretty much.” His gaze slides over to the boy moving farther away from him.

  “Uh, dude?”

  “So, yeah, that’s, um, what happened.” He glances over at the other librarian, an older buzzard, before texting under the table.

  I grab the plastic display of bookmarks and topple it in front of his face. “It’s very important for me to get this book soon. Now. If you don’t deem it important, I will go to your supervisor, who I’m sure can handle it.”

  He slides his phone into his pocket. “Fine,” he says, arranging the assortment of bookmarks, smart enough not to look at me.

  I check out a bunch of books on origami and print some instructions.

  “Hey,” I say, right as I’m homeward bound.

  He glances up from his phone.

  I topple the huge display of bookmarks on the table and, with a smile, leave him.

  “I have no idea what she was saying.” I lower my head to the countertop and roll it left and right. “None. Nada. Nothing.”

  No one responds. Which is a good thing because no one’s here at the moment. I drag the paperback closer, peering in at the pages floating inches apart.

  The first book was a happy story. The second I wasn’t allowed to read, only chapter six. The third was written, I’m sure, by a bona fide nutcase and the fourth by a saint. Now, on the fifth book in this follow-the-paper-trail routine, I’m wondering if Mrs. Stotes had it in for me, because this one is an all-out, sappified romance with men with long, flowy hair who save big-chested blondes from certain deaths, managing to look supasexay the whole time they’re doing it.

  Eight. That’s how many cards in total she left me. I count them again, thinking of what Nathaniel said about eight being her favorite number.

  The door clangs, and I sit up and stretch.

  It’s Peter, and he looks like hell in a handbasket. He hacks, leaning on the door frame for balance.

  “Peter?” I ask, standing a little.

  He shakes his head, coughing more, before wiping his mouth. “Forgive me, Michelle. I’m still a little sick.”

  “Shouldn’t you see a doc?”

  “It’s a virus, they said.”

  I give him a sorry smile. “Well, what’s up, then?”

  He staggers over, an old man in gait. “Just wanted to check on you. It’s been a while.” The last part is a realization.

  “Yeah, it has. But everything’s b—”r />
  He sneezes, right in my mother-flippin’ face.

  Ten minutes and one sterile face later, he and I are face-to-face but a safe distance apart this time.

  “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “You should be home in bed,” I snap, rooting for the hand sanitizer. I find it, but the bottle’s empty, with a sticky note in my handwriting: Get more sanitizer. “What kind of a convenience store doesn’t have hand sanitizer?” I yell, dropping the bottle in the garbage.

  “I’ll put that on the list right now. We can get it in stock.” He looks so helpless that I find I can’t stay mad at the guy.

  “It’s fine. Just go home, okay?”

  He does, hacking.

  I put out the Closed sign and scrub for the next thirty minutes, until there’s no possible way I could get sick.

  Wrong.

  It hurts.

  With a groan, I shift into a tighter ball on the couch. Wolf is at my feet, crying softly.

  Damn Peter.

  Another snot string starts its descent. I wipe it away, toss the tissue, and miss the wastebasket.

  I’ll get it later.

  My toes won’t reach, but I stretch anyway, hoping a wind will blow or the house will tilt it my way or the wastebasket will lean down and swallow it up. No luck, so I withdraw the foot and watch the painting on the wall instead.

  Why fruit? What’s so intriguing about a bowl of food? You don’t see people painting portraits of raw hamburger meat or splattered eggs in ceramic bowls. Then again . . .

  I dive for the garbage and heave into it.

  Now that. That’s intriguing, all brown and yellow and whatnot.

  Any other time, I could sleep standing up. Now I’m praying for meteors and can’t get one stray pebble to strike me down.

  Wolf’s fur is so soft. He’s in my lap, on the floor, and I hum to him. He falls asleep, but I can’t, not until Nate gets home.

  “Michelle?”

  My abdomen burns. My head hurts. It hurts all over—so bad—and I swallow back the pain. “Honey, I’m home.” That’s not my line, I realize.

  He’s next to me now, feeling my forehead, pulling me to the couch. I edge away, mumbling I’m sick, but he doesn’t care he says, so I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him.

  “I’m sick,” I murmur again, face in his shoulder.

  “What can I do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You need to go to the hospital.”

  I shake my head.

  His hands feel so nice on my back, on my hair, but I ache all over, so it hurts bad too.

  He sounds so worried. I didn’t want to worry him. I just feel like shit.

  I smile. “I’m fine. Sorry there are tissues on the floor.”

  There’s a hand on my forehead, and I hold it there with my own.

  “Let me help, please?”

  “Tylenol?”

  He swears, settling me back on the couch. I wave my arms, wishing him back, and he strokes my face.

  “I don’t want it that bad,” I say, eyes shutting.

  “I’m going to the pharmacy around the corner. I’ll be right back.” He leaves his coat and rushes out, the door slamming behind him.

  He wakes me up when he gets back, half the pharmacy in his arms.

  I shake my head. “Worrywart.”

  I think he may have a cream for that too.

  He’s unloading boxes of pills and ointments, and then I see he’s brought other stuff, like oranges and chocolate and gum and flowers and a stuffed puppy, and I start to laugh, laugh hard, until I’m crying and he’s holding out medicine, whispering softly, saying it’s going to be okay, but I don’t really believe him, not until I fall asleep.

  Hands on my face wake me. He’s turned now, reading the instructions on the back of the thermometer box.

  “It goes in the front end,” I say, pushing myself up.

  “How’re you feeling?”

  “Better.” I go to kiss his inner wrist, then think better of it. “You must want to get sick.”

  He shakes his head this time. “Are you sure you feel better?”

  “Still a little woozy but okay.” I’m sitting all the way up now, looking around the bedroom like I haven’t seen it dozens of times before.

  “Do you think you can eat?”

  “Not really. Will you stay with me?”

  He nods, holding my hand.

  “You’re gonna get germies.” I motion to our linked hands.

  “Don’t care.”

  I hold my arms out. He climbs into bed, and we lie there. No one talks until I ask where Wolf is.

  “On the side of the bed.”

  “Well, get him up here.”

  Wolfie lies at our feet. I rest against Nate’s chest, our arms around each other. I kiss his chest, and he hugs me tighter.

  “Is there any point in saying something if the other person already knows?” I ask, drawing invisible patterns on his shirt.

  “If it makes you happy and the other person happy.”

  “But what if you don’t know what they’ll say? What if you’re scared it’ll ruin everything?”

  He kisses my forehead.

  “I love you,” he whispers.

  And we doze for the rest of the day.

  I quit working at the gas station. With Nate gone, there’s too much work to be done and not enough reward at the end of the month, so I decide to hone my talents where my winning personality will be best put to use.

  “Can I take your order?”

  I smell like a waffle cone deep-fried in chicken grease. I’m tired and sick and want Nathaniel now.

  Instead, I’m catering to a table of seven who, after ten minutes, have yet to decide their orders.

  “Uh, yeah, can I have, uh”—he reads again, looks up, then glances back down—“a burger with no mayo, no onions, no pickles, no mustard, and no lettuce.”

  “So you want just meat and cheese?”

  “And bread,” he adds, folding the menu.

  I grit my teeth, wishing for gum to cushion the sawing. His tablemates aren’t much brighter, one asking if we delivered or if that’s for special occasions only.

  Yet to figure that one out.

  “I’m home,” I yell, flinging my shoes. They give a tired thud into the wall, and I want a do over.

  Nathaniel appears, wearing an apron.

  I try to hide the food I brought, but he’s seen it. “Oh, I didn’t—”

  “Me neither. Sorry—”

  “It’s okay. I didn’t—”

  We stop.

  At his nod I say, “I snuck some food out that they were gonna toss. We can save these and eat yours instead.”

  He grimaces. “Maybe we should eat the burgers.”

  The cause of his pain is two blackened eggs and squishy biscuits.

  I hug him. “It’s perfect.”

  “From our family to yours, have a merry Christmas and a happy New Year,” I read, flapping the fifty dollars from Aunt Thel.

  “That’s nice of her.”

  “Yep, yep.” I tape it to the mirror, where I put up all my favorite things. Cards, pictures, Nathaniel’s wooden carving hanging by a string—they all find a nice spot in the glass, where they can admire their reflections.

  I take the falcon down and sit by Nate on the bed, head on his shoulder. “You have to teach me to wood carve.”

  “You want to learn?”

  “You think I can’t?”

  He smiles, moving my bangs away. One hand takes the falcon, and the other strokes my cheek.

  I can barely breathe, so I manage with what oxygen is left in my lungs.

  “I never said that. I’m just glad.” He kisses my forehead, and I take his lips with mine.

  Chapter 12

  We’re standing at Mother Dear’s doorstep wearing grins as sticky as the broccoli casserole in Nate’s hand.

  “Do we have to?” The book we’ve been waiting for has finally come in, and it’s b
urning a hole in my bag.

  “Yes, you have to. You owe her this much. One party isn’t too much to ask . . .” He stops midsentence, obviously trying to recall what I asked him to say if I tried to bail. “Is that right?”

  “You did fine.” I kiss his hand. “Thanks.”

  He kisses my cheek, and we step on up. I almost swing the door open without knocking.

  She opens the door, dressed in a yellow long-sleeved dress with a few sequins around the neckline. “Come in. Come in.” She hustles us inside.

  The table against the wall is covered with food and drinks. I recognize the tablecloth as one I got her a few years back. It’s unstained, but with a bunch of happy drunks in here, that won’t last long.

  “How’ve you been?”

  We’re in the kitchen now, seated like two businesspeople striking a deal, hands folded on the table.

  “Fine. You?”

  She removes a crumb from her dress. “Fine, fine.” She looks at Nathaniel, who’s standing behind me.

  I feel him grow nervous, and I turn. “You can sit if you’d like.”

  He nods and takes a seat beside me.

  The staring resumes.

  “When are you coming home?”

  “I said—”

  “Not to mention it, I know.” She massages her hand, distracted. “Can I convince you?”

  “I take it you’re missing your cleaning lady?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “You’re not fair.”

  There’s a knock.

  No one responds.

  “I’ll, uh”—Nate stands—“get it.” He leaves.

  “Are you pregnant yet?” She turns a worried glare on me, her hands shaking.

  “No. Not planning on it.”

  “Thank God,” she breathes, pulling her phone from her jacket pocket.

  “Who are you texting?”

  “Your aunt Gert. She’s been so worried about this.”

  I’m headed upstairs before she notices my absence.

  My room is painted sunset pink. All the furniture has been moved clockwise, and the place smells like someone mixed perfume with the paint they lathered on the walls.

  I sit in the middle of the floor and look around. The first sanctuary to ever be mine, it’s ruined. Bitch didn’t waste much time.